


how statue-like I see thee stand

by onepercent



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Arguing, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Magical Realism, Oblivious Grantaire, Piningjolras, Slice of Life, Sobriety, grantaire is talented and refuses to admit it, vaguely magical au, volunteer work heck yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 20:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13865739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onepercent/pseuds/onepercent
Summary: Enjolras is a whirlwind—figuratively and literally—that, for reasons he can’t understand, is “intrigued” by Grantaire.title from to helen by edgar allan poe





	how statue-like I see thee stand

**Author's Note:**

> Omg, this took me forever to finish. I still don’t know if I’m in love with how it turned out, but it’s the longest thing I’ve ever written, and I would go crazy if I kept trying to perfect the little things and add more scenes and...ugh. You know. 
> 
> Something to note:  
> I am a 15 year old American girl writing about 20-something gay men in Paris, one of which is a recovering alcoholic. I have been to Paris twice, and that is about the extent of my knowledge. I tried to do good research on the alcoholism bit, but I will admit that my knowledge of 20-something gay men comes exclusively from fanfiction and TV. I tried my best with this fic, but if anything is glaringly wrong, please tell me. Also, I wrote this across about 2 months and nobody has seen it except for me, so if it feels a little disjointed, that’s probably why. 
> 
> Also, there are roughly a million literary references and quotes in here. Have fun finding them. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!!
> 
> small update grantaire’s cat is named after the character Lenina in the 1932 dystopian novel Brave New World by Alduous Huxley, NOT communist soviet russia/soviet union leader Vladimir Lenin

Enjolras’ hair was like the wind, the color of summer wheat. His hands were smooth, white, and bore no scars or calluses. His shoes were expensive but scuffed and never touched the ground. His eyes were almond-shaped blue-lace agate and his long yellow lashes perpetually fell drowsy-looking against his flushed cheek. He was gorgeous and alien, a distinctly sharp kind of beauty that brought most to their knees before him.

At first he passed Enjolras off as another arrogant protester, bored with gnawing on his silver spoon, led to try and help the unfortunate in order to feel good about himself for a fleeting moment. But as Grantaire watched from his corner, grey light streaming through a fingerprint-stained windowpane onto the shared table, he quickly realized week after week that this was not the case. The bright flurry of Enjolras’ step was ever weighed down by the injustices of the world resting on his shoulders alone. He was a man not of this earth; Grantaire was sure Enjolras’ determination was that of a god itself. He was untouchable, and for that reason, Grantaire refused to touch.

“R,” said Jehan. Small flowers bloomed slowly in a halo around his head, twisting delightfully into his sunset-orange hair. “Are you listening at all?”

As if the answer was not obvious enough, Grantaire shrugged and took a sip of water, condensation glistening like pearl on the old wooden table. He pointedly looked away from Jehan, who only rolled his narrow eyes, a smile curling at the corner of his thin lip. 

“We were planning on going out for a few drinks after the meeting,” Jehan reminded him fondly. A chain of daffodils began to weave itself behind his ear. “Bossuet just got promoted, you know, so we wanted to celebrate with him.”

Grantaire nodded. He did know, as Musichetta had told him this morning, catching him on his way to the gym. They often crossed paths there. Musichetta worked part-time at a brunch place down the street from Grantaire’s gym, which he made a point to go to at least thrice a week. Self-betterment and all that, but that was neither here nor there. “I think I’ll pass,” Grantaire said, shrugging again. He felt a bit guilty for not celebrating with them, but his throat tightened at the thought of the alcohol. “I have a few commissions I need to work on that I’ve been procrastinating. Maybe another time?”

Bahorel, who was sitting beside Jehan, paying half attention to him and half attention to Feuilly, raised his eyebrows at that. “Really? Never thought you would be the one to pass up a good time for work, no less!” He guffawed, not unkindly. Feuilly smiled, then waved Enjolras over to sit and talk about the book Feuilly had lent him. Grantaire didn’t really notice. 

“Yeah, well,” Grantaire said, smiling a little sardonically. Jehan looked at him inquiringly and Bahorel’s tattoos shifted on his shoulder to glance at him and he felt even guiltier for not telling them sooner. “I’ve been sober for a month and a half, so it wasn’t in my schedule to break that.” 

Jehan’s face morphed into a delighted “oh”, chrysanthemums falling like rain onto his lap. Bahorel laughed again and reached behind Jehan to give Grantaire a clap on his shoulder. He could feel small rivulets of black ink trickle from Bahorel’s calloused fingertips onto his back before fizzling out. Feuilly briefly abandoned his conversation with Enjolras to turn to Grantaire: “R, that’s really amazing!”

“Thanks,” said Grantaire, hopefully succeeding in hiding his discomfort. Looking around the room, nobody else seemed to hear their conversation, everyone engrossed in their own amongst each other. For this, Grantaire was glad. It was not a big deal; hardly something to be proud of. He wished not to be the center of attention at these meetings, and had been relatively successful in staying out of it as of late. While he was close friends with quite a few members, and on a namely basis with most others, he decided a while ago to stay out of the limelight as much as possible at these things, lest he embarrass himself or something in front of them (he would never admit that the “in front of Enjolras” went unsaid).

Speaking of, his eyes shifted to meet Enjolras’, who he hadn’t really registered as being there, and was surprised to see that Enjolras was already looking. “Congratulations, Grantaire,” he said, a slight smile gracing his chiseled features. It was strange, Grantaire thought. He could probably count the times Enjolras had actively made the decision to talk to him about anything other than social justice or whatever on one hand, and he couldn’t recall a time Enjolras had smiled at him specifically before, ever. 

A few moments passed and Enjolras stood to start the meeting, his feet skating above the floor to join Combeferre and Courfeyrac. As he left, a small breeze blew carelessly across Grantaire’s knuckles. Grantaire pulled out his sketchbook as Enjolras preached and did not look up the entire meeting. 

 

 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras called out to him just as he was about to leave. They were not the only two left—Combeferre and Joly were having a conversation about smart-people things towards the back, which Grantaire never attempted to try to understand. He briefly debated pretending he didn’t hear, but the door closed with a jingle and a gust of wind, so he turned to face Enjolras. 

“Yes?” said Grantaire. Enjolras finished putting his laptop and notebook into his faux-leather bookbag that hung off his red shoulder. His hair was in the remains of a militaristic bun, many a strand lingering to frame his face. This was strange to Grantaire, but not overly so—no matter how much a god he was, Enjolras was not to be held by the vices of humanity such as hair falling out of its place. 

“I was wondering if you’d—well, actually,” Enjolras started. Apparently words came natural to him only in front of a crowd, or perhaps only to important people, Grantaire thought before remembering he was in Combeferre-radius and he chased the thought away before Combeferre could hear it. “Jehan and Courfeyrac volunteered to help paint the walls of a small church a little outside the city and I was wondering if you’d like to come help with them and me. Us.” He looked a little awkward as he spoke, a complete opposite of the usual Enjolras, who, Grantaire would grudgingly admit, he had put on such a high pedestal that anything except angry and hopeful and inspired was well outside Grantaire’s realm of Enjolrasian possibility. Grantaire felt a spike of discomfort at that in his chest, though he could hardly understand why.

“Um, okay,” said Grantaire. “When is it? I’m pretty sure I’m free but I’d like to make sure.”

“Day after tomorrow at noon,” Enjolras recited. “I’ll have Courfeyrac text you the details.” He readjusted the strap on his shoulder, and looked ready to head out, but something stopped him, and he traced his right foot in the air behind his left.

“I noticed you were quiet today during the meeting,” Enjolras admitted after a beat of silence except for Combeferre exchanging goodbyes with Joly, who left to catch up with Musichetta. “And I realized you aren’t that involved here, in what we do, not just messing around with our friends beforehand.” Grantaire winced at those implications, whether they be intentional or not; Enjolras didn’t seem to notice his grimace. “And I know that’s partly my fault, since everyone thinks I’m the leader—“ Grantaire rolled his eyes—“so I thought I’d ask.” He hesitated briefly, his usually stoic eyes refusing to meet Grantaire’s. A pale hand reached up to swipe at the gold hair at the nape of his neck. “Courfeyrac showed me your instagram, and I know you like to paint based on those photos you post so I thought maybe you’d like to help us.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened a little, and he smirked cheekily. “Painting a wall is hardly the same as painting a canvas, Apollo.”

Enjolras’ pink lips curled into a frown, and Grantaire swore he was flushed under the fluorescent lighting. “Don’t call me that. I’ll see you later.” With that, he left, the door opening and closing behind him quickly. 

How strange. 

This was not the Enjolras Grantaire had familiarized himself with over the past few months, and he just stood, a little stunned at Enjolras’ proposal in the first place. Why would Enjolras bother asking him to come; why not ask literally any other member beside Grantaire?

“You intrigue him,” Combeferre answered, coming up behind him, and Grantaire jumped about a foot in the air. 

Grantaire recollected himself enough to frown disapprovingly at him. “What do you mean?”

“He’s best friends, or at least familiar, with every regular at these things, except you,” Combeferre explained with a shrug. “He told you himself that he wants you to be more involved, and if the opportunity arises for him to make the world a slightly better place and learn about the enigma in the corner then he’ll do it.” His lips quirked. 

“Every opportunity an obligation,” Grantaire mumbled, mostly to himself. “He shouldn’t bother. I’m quite happy to be an enigma to him, anyways; let him ignore me and think me all the better for it.”

“Tell him that yourself, then,” Combeferre said lightly, putting a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and stepping forward. “I’m sure he’d heartily disagree, but you’re alright to try. He really—well, I’m not allowed to disclose that kind of information, but know he doesn’t ignore you, and he hasn’t for a long time.” He began to walk towards the door, but turned around with his hand on the handle. “Oh, and R? I know you don’t think it’s a big deal, but congratulations on your sobriety. Really.”

The door jingled on his way out. Grantaire stood pensively, feeling a bit violated as one always does around Combeferre, that all-knowing bastard, before leaving himself. 

 

 

“Oh, R! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It was the next day, and Grantaire was standing at Courfeyrac’s door. “It’s about Enjolras,” he answered, and toed off his shoes by the mat as Courfeyrac led him inside. 

“Sit down on the couch there,” Courfeyrac directed, walking to the small kitchen, “and I can heat up something to drink. Coffee okay? I have some leftover from this morning.”

“That’s fine,” said Grantaire, doing as he said. Courfeyrac walked back into the living-room a few moments later with coffee heating in each hand. He handed one to Grantaire before sitting perpendicular to him on an overstuffed armchair. 

“I’m your therapist now,” Courfeyrac said. He took a gulp of coffee, and didn’t look bothered by what Grantaire was sure should have scalded his throat. “Lay it on me. Your problems are my problems, and I am here to save the day, as per usual, with my amazing advice and impressive wisdom.”

“Your humility never fails to astound me,” Grantaire said dryly.

“It’s my best quality. One of them, anyway.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes fondly. Courfeyrac could put anyone in a good mood. 

“Well, Enjolras told me about that painting thing yesterday,” Grantaire started before Courfeyrac interrupted him. 

“Oh, yeah! You should totally come, the head pastor there is so nice and her church is pretty small but they do so much around the community so we figured it would be good to help them for a change—“

“I thought therapists were supposed to listen to me.”

“Clearly you’ve thought wrong,” Courfeyrac said pointedly. “It’s good to know Enjolras asked you yesterday, though. I was afraid he’d never do it!”

Grantaire’s eyebrows furrowed.

Courfeyrac looked at the ceiling. “He meant to ask you last week, I think, but I think he was a little intimidated.”

Grantaire was 5’7”, kinda chubby, and had his cat Lenina tattooed on his shoulder. Enjolras was something like 6’2”, slim, and his smooth skin was akin to that of a model’s. Grantaire raised a thick eyebrow. “Intimidated.”

“Yeah, dude,” Courfeyrac said with a shrug. “You’re a stocky Canadian guy with buff daddy arms—“

“Oh god, don’t put me and ‘daddy’ in the same sentence—“

“—you have mood swings like nobody’s business—“

“I’m a depressed starving-artist recovering alcoholic—“

“—and you’re good at literally everything.”

Grantaire laughed. If asked, he would not deny that it was self-deprecating in nature. “I’m an alright artist, and that’s about it.”

Courfeyrac huffed. “You draw, paint, play two instruments, and you work out on the reg, which is probably the most intimidating part. Enjolras hasn’t seem a gym since like ninth grade PE. Only class he didn’t make an A in—don’t tell him I said that. You could probably snap him in half.”

Grantaire thought briefly about Enjolras in a gym before deciding that imagining Enjolras not only working out but also being horrible at it was probably not good for his health. “Bahorel is completely fuckin’ ripped,” Grantaire pointed out. “How come he has no problem talking to him? Plus he talks to important people and crowds of hundreds on the daily. I have a hard time believing someone like Enjolras is “intimidated””—he made quotation-fingers with one hand— “by someone like me.”

 

Courfeyrac downed the rest of his coffee. “First of all, Bahorel is a huge softie when you get to know him. You know this. Enjolras knows this. Enjolras does not know that you are not some silent brooding serial killer hiding in the shadows.” He hunched over and wiggled his fingers menacingly like some kind of evil fairytale witch for added effect.

“I don’t brood,” Granaire insisted. “I talk with everyone like all the time. Just because I don’t actively go out of my way to protest capitalism or whatever the fuck doesn’t mean I’m a serial killer.”

Courfeyrac snapped his fingers triumphantly. “See, that’s what I mean! Enjolras kind of measures his friendships by how much we support him, I guess is the way to put it. Is it a flawed system? Yes. Enjolras is a flawed human being.” Grantaire looked down at his coffee. “But we love him. He knows that you don’t believe everything he says, whether you say it aloud or not, and he’s not used to it. Maybe intimidated wasn’t the right word, but he’s certainly...intrigued. When I showed him your instagram, he scrolled through it for close to an hour. You mystify him, I think.”

“Why, though?” Grantaire blurted. “I’m hardly someone to be mystified by, especially by Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac set his mug down on the coffee-table and walked to stand in front of Grantaire. He took Grantaire’s cheeks in his hands, and Grantaire leaned into the incredible heat of his palms. “He’s just a guy, R. You think you’re less than him, and I get that because it’s hard not to feel eclipsed by him at the start, but he’s just a person. We’re just people. He’s not a god. He’s allowed to be interested in you because he wants to get to know you, and you’re just going to have to accept that because I charge extra to talk about your self-esteem issues and we all know you can’t afford me.”

“I understand. There’s a lot to unpack,” Grantaire shrugged with a grin, but his stomach felt to be somewhere close to his throat. “Maybe next session. You’re a good therapist, by the way.” 

Courfeyrac tapped Grantaire’s cheek twice before sitting back down. Grantaire missed the warmth, but said nothing. “I told you, my wisdom is vast and amazing,” Courfeyrac bragged. “And I wasn’t joking when I said that you can’t tell Enjolras that I told you that he almost failed PE. He would literally murder me. Now kindly get the fuck out of my apartment—Jehan is coming over at one, and we’re going to pick out paint for tomorrow with Mlle Thomas. I’ll text you the address later if you need it.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” said Grantaire, and he set his mug down and pulled his shoes on. Courfeyrac waved him out with a goodbye, and Grantaire made his way to the metro station nearby. On his way home, he decided thoroughly not to think about Enjolras scrolling through his instagram, or almost failing PE if Courfeyrac is to be believed, or being “intrigued” by Grantaire, lest Enjolras should cease to be something Grantaire could feel himself unworthy of.

 

 

“You ready to paint, bitch?” Courfeyrac greeted him as he walked inside. He was a few minutes late (it was kind of to be expected by this point, though), and Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Enjolras were already there when he walked in. There were cans of unopened paint taking up the front pew, and several paintbrushes and paint-rollers and other supplies on top of them. Grantaire could hear the AC dutifully chugging away on full blast as it was hot as all hell outside—being on the cramped metro for close to an hour certainly hadn’t helped, and Grantaire’s old, worn tank-top was probably already gross with sweat, which was decidedly ew. 

“We are at a church,” Jehan said, crossing his arms over a threadbare, truly awful, loose neon orange t-shirt with what looked to be a deformed crab printed on the front.

Courfeyrac didn’t look bothered. “I don’t think Jesus cares. Mlle Thomas seems chill, anyways, from when we met her.”

“Please just call me Camilla,” shouted Mlle Thomas from the other room, before coming to join them a few moments later. Her hair was in a long, straight black ponytail down her back, and it swayed as she held out a hand to shake with Grantaire. “You’re René Grantaire, then? Nice to meet you.”

Grantaire shook her hand, and admired her strong grip. “Yes, ma’am. Enchanted.”

She huffed and waved a hand noncommittally. “I’m no “ma’am”—I’m hardly five years older than you!”

“It says a lot,” chimed in Enjolras. “What you’ve managed to accomplish here in only a few years is really no small feat, and your help to the community isn’t going unnoticed.”

She laughed heartily. “Well, thank you, Julien. So, first of all, I cannot thank you enough for this! I wish I could stay and help you guys more, but unfortunately I have a few other matters to attend to.” She picked up her purse off the preacher’s podium and slung it over her shoulder. “Really, if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to contact me. We don’t have anything scheduled here today so there shouldn’t be anyone getting in your hair! Seriously, thank you for being here, the church and I really appreciate it. Ciao!” She waved at them, and her high-heels clacked on the way out. Unfortunately, when she opened the door, an offensive wave of heat made its way inside, and Grantaire could feel his shirt starting to stick to his back. 

“So,” said Enjolras. “I propose we have two of us stay in this main room and the other two can do the backroom.”

“I’ll take the latter,” volunteered Grantaire. “It’s farther from the door, and I’m already dying of heat.” It was true. He was honestly a little surprised he hadn’t had a stroke yet. 

“Enj, you should go with him,” said Jehan. A small rose slowly bloomed under his ear and fell to his shoulder. “Courfeyrac and I can do this room together.”

“Not my name,” said Enjolras absently, turning away and picking up a can of paint and primer in each hand and walking to the back of the room, lightly kicking the door open. Grantaire grabbed a few paint rollers and painters’ tape and followed. 

Thankfully, the tarps on the floor had already been set up, and the furniture had been moved to the center, including a fan, which Grantaire fell in love with immediately. While Enjolras went back to fetch a stepladder, he quickly plugged it into an outlet, turned it on its highest setting possible, and lied down in front of it as it blasted air over his back. It was quite possibly the best feeling in the world. 

“Um,” said Enjolras as he returned with the aforementioned stepladder.

“Shut up,” moaned Grantaire, “it feels so fucking good.”

“It’s not even that hot,” muttered Enjolras, as he started to line the ceiling with tape.

“False,” said Grantaire, flipping onto his back. “You are so wrong. I grew up in North Dakota where the only seasons are cold and colder. I’m still not used to living in a country with actual summer.”

“Courfeyrac said you were Canadian,” Enjolras said, distracted with the painters’ tape.

“I was born there but I moved to the US when I was nine,” Grantaire said with a shrug. Don’t overshare, said the voice in his head, which he acknowledged, then ignored. “My parents got divorced then, and my mom got full custody of my sister and I. We moved to get away from my dad whose whole family was living in Sherbrooke. I lived in middle-of-nowhere North Dakota until I was twenty-two.”

“Ah,” said Enjolras. “You only moved to Paris last year, though.” This was true, but Grantaire didn’t know how Enjolras would know this, as he had only been showing up to his meetings a few months ago after befriending a few of the members. Regardless, he sat up, and the harsh breeze of the fan through his dark hair was a gift from God Himself. 

“Yeah, I lived in Spain before,” he said, closing his eyes. “My sister’s boyfriend lives there, so after she finished high school, we moved. Thankfully he wasn’t, like, catfishing her or anything, and he helped us adjust.”

Enjolras moved the stepladder to the next wall. “You speak Spanish, then?” 

“Catalan, mostly,” Grantaire said, standing up and stretching his arms above his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I studied Spanish all of high school, so I know it pretty well, but I stayed mostly just a little outside Barcelona with Charlotte and Leo so I had to learn.” Enjolras hummed instead of responding.

He opened one eye and looked up at Enjolras, perched upon the rickety stepladder. His eyes were focused and his brow low. His hair was in a curly ponytail, but the humidity made it frizzy and stick out in weird places. The fluorescent lighting was certainly not doing him any favors, but Grantaire noted in the back of his mind that Enjolras still managed to look vaguely evangelical even when it was about forty degrees out while lining a tiny church’s old backroom wall with painters’ tape. 

Grantaire sorrowfully abandoned his post by his beloved fan, and opened a can of primer. He poured some out into a tray and began to prime the wall Enjolras had tapefied with one of the long paint-rollers. 

“So-o-o,” he said after a very long stretch of silence that wasn’t unexpected, but was mildly uncomfortable nonetheless. “You know, I really can’t believe they’re trying to secede from Spain. It’ll never work.” This was, of course, a clear and obvious cheap shot to get Enjolras riled up and angry. However, seeing Enjolras riled up and angry in some strange way felt more comfortable to Grantaire than having some semblance of a real conversation, so it was upon this crutch that Grantaire fell back on.

Enjolras looked at him incredulously over his shoulder. “They don’t even speak the same language,” he said. “Their culture is completely different from the rest Spain’s, you said it yourself, and Spain has been repressing that for ages—violently, at that. Spanish police tried to prevent Catalonians from voting on the referendum. Frankly, it’s a threat to democracy to not let them secede.” He moved to the next wall. 

Grantaire only smirked, and dipped his roller into more primer. He was close to halfway done. “Spain’s economy has been on the downhill since forever, especially with their crisis now. If Catalonia goes, Spain’s doomed. And not to mention that Catalonia would never get enough money to stay afloat even if they managed to leave. It’s all about the money, Apollo.”

“I’m not denying that,” Enjolras said hotly, somehow managing to tape aggressively. “And don’t call me Apollo. But it’s the job of those that promote democracy to defend and help, which includes finances. What kind of hypocrites would they be if they didn’t?”

Grantaire scoffed. “All people really care about is money. The secession would mean panic in the EU and then Europe as a whole would likely be fucked from there. Catalonia will try, Spain will oppress, Catalonia will fail, and every politician who stayed out of it will pat himself on the back for not entering this economic-political nightmare.”

Enjolras didn’t take kindly to this, and thus it continued. It moved from European politics to the innate goodness (or evil, in Grantaire’s book) of man, then to the reliability and effects of wide-scale religion, and then back to politics. It felt good to argue with Enjolras. Grantaire kind of regretted not speaking up at their meetings earlier, because letting arguments happen in your mind was so much less fun than actually arguing with Enjolras in real life. His eyes blazed and his voice snapped but his hands never wavered where they held his paint-roller (he finished taping the room after they began their discussion on the duality of the human race). Whenever Grantaire said something particularly offensive, the breeze from the fan would become a full-on gust of wind that almost knocked Grantaire over a few times. Enjolras’ attention was on him alone, and Grantaire couldn’t describe it as anything other than fun. 

It went on for hours without pause as they worked. They eventually sat down, Grantaire resuming his position in front of the fan, and Enjolras a few feet waywards, leaning against a chair-leg. The wood was cool against his back, and Grantaire felt content, despite Enjolras yelling—

“You are so ignorant, it’s not even funny!” 

And thus the fan let out an especially violent gust, puttered out, and promptly fell directly on Grantaire. 

“Fucking hell,” grunted Grantaire, lifting it off of his stomach. It was pretty heavy as far as fans went. 

“Are you alright?” said Enjolras, his cornflower eyes betraying his concern, though he hadn’t really moved from his spot. Must have been comfortable. 

“Dandy,” said Grantaire with a sigh. A silence lapsed, and for the second time, Grantaire had to think of something to break it. He had never really prided himself on his social skills, but so far it seemed like Enjolras was either Angry or Mostly Just Quiet with little wiggle room in between, so at least Grantaire one-upped him in that regard, if not much else. And it wasn’t like they could just sit in silence—the other option was to literally watch paint dry, and they still definitely had at least another coat to do, which could take hours. He couldn’t think of a counterpoint to anything Enjolras had said without doing more research of his own, and he couldn’t think of anything new, either. God, he really wasn’t cut out for this. A small part of him had been hoping he and Enjolras could be something resembling friends, but what good was it if they couldn’t speak to one another if it wasn’t an argument? Like, come on. Grantaire should have just—

“I like your tattoo,” said Enjolras, breaking the silence, thank the Lord Above. Grantaire looked up, and it might have been just the lighting, but his face looked a little red. Grantaire decided not to mention it. 

“Oh, yeah,” Grantaire turned his shoulder to face Enjolras, lightly tapping his finger over it. It shifted, winking its inky eye and meowing silently—Bahorel’s tattoo-work. “It’s my cat Lenina, I got her when I moved out to live by myself in Barcelona. She kept me from going literally insane.” He smiled, slowly. The fan began to work again. “She was a gift from my sister to keep me company.”

“You never had a roommate, then?” asked Enjolras, who Grantaire vaguely knew lived with Combeferre. 

“Nah,” said Grantaire. “I’m not a very good roommate.”

“Why not?” asked Enjolras bluntly. 

“I’m an artist, so I’m messy,” said Grantaire, counting off his fingers. “I’m a musician, so I’m loud. I can barely cook, and since I’m self-employed, I have weird hours. Plus there was that whole alcoholic-tendencies thing,” he said casually.

Enjolras looked at him closely. “Can you tell me about your alcoholism?”

Grantaire blinked.

“Sorry,” Enjolras blurted, probably realizing this for himself. “That was rude.” His head was tilted to the side, having the decency to at least look embarrassed.

“No, um,” said Grantaire eloquently. This was quite literally the last possible topic he had imagined coming up in any conversation with Enjolras. In fact, he had convinced himself Enjolras had since forgotten about it. “It’s fine. I don’t mind, really. Er, what do you want to know?”

Enjolras shrugged. He looked unsure, which was not a look Grantaire was familiar with at all. This made Grantaire feel off-kilter in ways he couldn’t explain. 

“Well,” Grantaire started, slowly, sitting up. “It started in high school, I would say. You’d think a graduating class of less than one hundred wouldn’t be the stereotypical parties-every-weekend type, but it was. Everyone knew everyone, so everyone got fucked up with everyone else. Senior year, it only got worse. People leaving for college didn’t give a shit because they had already been accepted to whichever backwater university they had chosen, and everyone else was just waiting for it to end. That was the year I really got into weed, and getting plastered drunk every single Friday night for nine months does something to you. After that it was just a mix of bad decisions.

“I moved out by myself to a bigger city. I got a few jobs here and there, and when I turned 21, I could, like, legally do shit. I worked at a bar part-time, which can put you in the wrong crowd. Sex, drugs, rock and roll was kind of my life as a depressed twenty-something, living alone with nothing to lose. None of my coworkers gave a fuck if I drank on the job, which encouraged it until next thing I knew, I couldn’t sleep without drinking myself into oblivion.” This was probably more than what Enjolras asked for—he didn’t need Grantaire’s whole life story—but it felt good. He hadn’t told anyone he had met in Paris this—Courfeyrac and Éponine knew some, and the rest of his friends really only knew that he was an alcoholic for some undisclosed amount of time. 

“When my sister and I moved to Barcelona, it was just...different, I guess. When I stayed with my sister and Leo, I tried to keep it to a minimum around them, which helped maybe a little bit. Charlotte’s four years younger than me, and her boyfriend’s three, so it felt weird living with them for longer than I had to and I moved out a few blocks away. 

“Then it was back to how it had been after I graduated back home. Nobody was there to tell me not to do it, and none of my friends really noticed. And when you’re drunk and high out of your mind, you know, you have such “good ideas””—he made air-quotes with his hands—“and I painted them. Weird, bad surrealist shit, but it sold better than I thought, so that only encouraged it. It spiraled out of control before I could ever notice, and it was normal to me. I was depressed, too, and poor—I haven’t stopped that part, but anyway—and shots were a cheap and fast way to make quick fun and a little money, what with the art and whatnot. I didn’t really even have hangovers anymore, and I never hurt anyone, so I didn’t see a reason to really stop. 

“Spain got boring, after a while. My sister got married, all my friends left me to do their own thing, so I moved here. I met Courfeyrac, and then all of you guys a few months after I moved. It’s…” He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. “You guys were different than my other friends before. Everyone made me want to succeed, and I realized I couldn’t do that if I was day drinking on the regular and spending all my money on Fireball and a mediocre joint every once in a while.” 

He shrugged, picking at the tarp on the floor with his chipped fingernail. “So I tried to lay off. It took a while to where I could go more than a day without it, but now I’ve been sober for a month and a half. It hurts a lot, sometimes, and it’s hard to have to distance yourself from it all. This time last year, the thought of never drinking again was an impossibility, but now...it’s what I want.”

Enjolras looked at him fiercely, with something close to passion. 

Grantaire laughed nervously. “Sorry to bring the mood down on you. I didn’t mean…” He trailed off, not knowing where that sentence was supposed to land. 

“No,” said Enjolras quietly. “I’m the one who asked, anyway.”

“Why’d you want to know about it?” asked Grantaire. He was awfully curious. 

Enjolras frowned thoughtfully, looking now away from Grantaire, and he messed with an errant curl. “It’s important.”

Grantaire waited for a few moments for him to continue, but it became quickly clear that he was not going to. “Is that all?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about you, but it seemed like an important detail.”

Grantaire nodded. “Well if you don’t know, now you know,” he said in English. 

Enjolras smiled a bit at that at least, and a small zephyr blew across the backs of Grantaire’s shoulders. “You’re a good guy, Grantaire.” 

When Grantaire heard this, he was cut to the heart and said to Enjolras, “What for?”

“You’re sober for a bit, now, and started your recovery all on your own. That deserves some merit.” 

“It’s my fault for digging myself into that ditch. Hardly something to be proud of.” 

“Regardless, you’re sitting here, volunteering to help a tiny church an hour outside the city in forty-degree weather with a person you’ve disagreed with on every topic so far. That alone stands for something, doesn’t it?” Enjolras had that gleam in his eyes, the one he got when he was trying to preach something fierce, but he still had on that small smile. 

“You’re doing all of that, too, and more,” Grantaire pointed out. He was vaguely aware that Enjolras was trying to be nice, but it made him feel uncomfortable and alone. “I don’t want to argue about this. And, you know, don’t tell the others about all of this. I don’t really know why I even told you.” This was a lie. Grantaire knew perfectly well why he told him—Enjolras was inherently, resoundingly good: passionate, wild, intense; knowing, caring, and quiet. He was light on his feet, and unrelentingly in his beliefs; intelligence and confidence his double-edged sword held in smooth hands. He was like Gabriel—no, closer to Michael: a powerful, selfless warrior and leader. His goodness flowed off of him like the wind, and made Grantaire want to see whatever humanity Enjolras saw that made it worth saving to him. 

Enjolras looked somewhat concerned—hurt, even, but Grantaire chose to ignore that—and his mouth opened as if he was going to say something, but it was at this moment Courfeyrac and Jehan came in, demanding they take a break by visiting a gelato place down the street. Thus, Grantaire once again braved the sticky heat, Enjolras by his side, and an argument about dairy farms and the merits of modern veganism sprang up as they went. 

 

 

After that, things shifted a little. At their weekly meetings, Grantaire found himself arguing with Enjolras more often than not, much to their friends’ amusement/annoyance. They weren’t close friends, by any means of the word—they didn’t see each other much outside of the Café Musain, except for when they were at a friend’s house or apartment, or they were volunteering together, which was strikingly often. ABC meetings were about social justice, staging demonstrations and protests and whatnot, but they were also heavily inclined to help out around the city because all of Grantaire’s friends were the best, nicest, most thoughtful people in the entire world. There were always animal shelters who needed a few extra hands for adoption days, understaffed libraries with piles of books to sort, homeless shelters with food and clothes to distribute. 

Record-breaking summer melted languidly into a pleasant fall. The trees were golden and red like flames reaching to the blue sky, light with warm rain. Grantaire painted often, mostly in watercolor. Autumn made him dizzy, as it would to any artist—the washed-out beige of Paris lit up with rainbow leaves that crunched delightfully underfoot and drifted lazily down from blue restaurant awnings. He went to different parks with Éponine and her brother and sister to play when it was sunny out, and when it wasn’t, they came over to his shoebox of a home and played Monopoly instead. He went to twelve-step meetings on Tuesdays; he went to the gym every other day. He couldn’t afford therapy, but the routine of ABC on the weekends and the twelve-step on Tuesday grounded him when he felt distant. He had more good days than bad ones, and the bad ones were manageable at their worst—he never drowned himself in a bottle, no matter how much he really, really wanted to; if he felt truly sick, he would call Joly, who could make any migraine physically feel ten times better just by being near you, or Courfeyrac, who was an actual living furnace and could cuddle the pain in his stomach and head away with his controlled heat. He played his violin, Carla, most days when he had the time, surely annoying his neighbors, even with a practice-mute on, but he found that he didn’t really care. He felt calm, and content. He was nowhere near less cynical; Enjolras would know, though their arguments these days leaned more towards semi-helpful criticism than the outright painful verbal jabs that had been thrown when either had gotten particularly petulant on a controversial topic a few months ago. He chewed a lot of mint gum—it started as a habit from eating lunch and going straight to meetings with commission or design clients and soon developed into a full-blown gum addiction. He felt the most himself he ever had. 

Then came winter. Grantaire didn’t hate snow or anything, but he definitely preferred fiery leaves to wet slush. The snow made him feel nostalgic, remembering Christmas with his family every year as a kid. He and Charlotte would beg their then-together parents to let them go outside and make snowmen and maple taffy and the occasional snow angel (which, in case you wanted to know, was the nickname Grantaire gleefully had started calling Enjolras after he had witnessed him somehow slip and eat total shit in the surprisingly slippery freshly-fallen fluff). Memories weighed him down, and he painted less from the life around him; mostly just sketches of old faces, or gouache abstraction. He had to take up more commission-work online since he wasn’t selling many originals, which was exhausting. His previous routine felt less grounding and more restricting, and he often went to bed without brushing his teeth or taking a shower. He picked at his acne scars and cut his nails down short to where they bled, and it hurt too much to play the violin. He couldn’t go to the park with Éponine due to the weather, and her brother and sister didn’t like Monopoly anymore. He knew seasonal depression was a thing, but he had never felt it quite so hard. He was indescribably bored with the Paris sagging with snow on its shoulders, cobblestone slippery with ice. 

 

 

courfie: hey r u ok???? havent heard from u all day 

courfie: usually ur early to abc r u not coming today??u never miss it lol

R: I cant I’m not really feeling it

courfie: u want me 2 come over??? I can bring joly if neccessary 

R: No thanks i’m fine don’t miss it bc of me

courfie: legit its no big deal bro r u sure? I can come over I dont mind at all

R: Dont its all good im fine

courfie: >:// ok whateva u say

courfie: i think enj is concerned that u r gone

courfie: yep he just totally blew ur chair over lol

courfie: r???????

courfie: I told him u were sick i think he is scheming somethin

courfie: I GAVE HIM UR ADDRESS HOPE U DONT MIND XXXX

courfie: be wary a worried enj is a fuckin annoying one. I think hes legit super concerned for u tho u never miss meetinfgs????

 

Apollo: Grantaire, it’s Enjolras. Do you mind if I come over to pick up those posters for the upcoming protest sometime this evening? Courfeyrac gave me your address, and I really need them tonight so I can get it all finalized ASAP. Thanks.

 

courfie: well i couldnt stop him from checking up on u l8r so I think hes coming after abc

courfie: ……….aight its p obvious u fell asleep or ur ifnoring me or smthn so sweet dweams hope u feel better r srsly tell us if u need anything xxx

 

 

Grantaire hadn’t fallen asleep, his phone had just died shortly after answering Courfeyrac’s texts. The charger was tangled in a vicious knot somewhere on the other side of the room, so he didn’t bother. He was currently sitting, ensconced warmly in a pile of blankets on his bed, which was really just a mattress on the floor but who cares, anyways, leaning over his stupid fucking eight-hundred-fucking-dollar tablet that was lagging by more than a fucking second despite the fact that he had changed its stupid fucking batteries and the pen nib less than a week ago and he was starting to get a little fucking pissed.

Understandably. 

This predicament, of course, was paired with a headache, a recurring bout of nausea, and a vague feeling that he had forgotten something all day for no apparent reason other than that the universe held a unique grudge against him for his probably innumerable sins he had committed in this life and the past. His apartment was freezing—hence the fact that, should anyone happen to come in right now, all they would see were his calloused hands poking out of the blanket pile, becoming increasingly frustrated at his stupid lagging tablet, and his head, disguised mostly by his quite dreadful case of bedhead and the pair of very thick lenses slipping down his crooked nose, as he couldn’t be bothered the entire day to get out of bed and put on his contacts. Thankfully, he had no plans today other than ABC, which he could cancel, though he recalled from Courfeyrac’s text that he had never missed a meeting since he had started coming. His laptop, phone, and tablet had been in their dutiful spot on his bedside table when he had woken up in the morning, so he was able to keep himself occupied the whole day without getting up from bed, which was horribly lazy but he couldn’t find it in him to care. Oh well. Since he had hopefully deterred Courfeyrac from bringing Joly over, it’s not like anyone would see him like this, anyways.

There were three succinct knocks on his front door. Grantaire groaned, and buried himself deeper into his blanket nest. He pretended like he wasn’t home, which didn’t take much except cursing at his pen under his breath instead of out loud like he had been. Unfortunately, this plan didn’t work, and came again those three raps on his door, and again after that. He decided sluggishly that it was probably more productive to get up and see who it is instead of sitting, waiting for them to go away.

He stood up slowly, his legs aching a little bit, and small black dots feathered over the edges of his vision. This was likely a side effect of literally not moving at all for the past seven hours, so he took it in stride. 

He made his way to the front door, blankets trailing off his shoulders to the ground. He almost tripped over Lenina, who had taken to lying in the most inconvenient spot physically possible in front of the door. He gently tapped her with his foot, and she glared at him as much as a cat could before stalking off. 

He opened the door. It was Enjolras, looking a little worse for wear. “Oh,” said Grantaire. “Hey?”

“Hey,” said Enjolras. “Did you get my text? You didn’t respond, but Courfeyrac said you would just be at home.” He tilted his head. “You don’t usually miss meetings, and I don’t want to bother if you’re feeling unwell, but I really needed those posters I asked you to make last week—”

“Shit fuck,” exclaimed Grantaire loudly, which sent a spark of pain between his eyes. “I can get them to you tomorrow, I promise, but I just—”

“You forgot?” said Enjolras accusingly. His eyes hardened.

“No,” lied Grantaire. His migraine was only getting worse, and he was not in the mood for Enjolras to be angry at him. (It had happened a few times, Enjolras getting angry enough to call him good-for-nothing or question why he was there in the first place. He usually ended up apologizing a few days later, but Grantaire wasn’t in the mood to go through this whole cycle again.) “I just have been busy with commissions and other projects, you know—”

Enjolras huffed a humorless mean laugh. Grantaire hadn’t expected him to be this pissed. “Too busy to help out with a protest we’ve had on the horizon for months? Even you should know how important this is.”

Grantaire looked up at the ceiling, and felt dizzy. “I know, okay? I get it. I can finish the posters soon, it’s not a big deal—”

“No,” said Enjolras, and the wind outside began to pick up. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it, if you have better things to do—”

“You’re being ridiculous, as always,” interjected Grantaire, exasperated. “Why are you so upset? I told you I can finish them tonight, so just let me do it. It’s my fault and I’m sorry they’re late, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“It isn’t about the posters,” said Enjolras. What’s it about, then? thought Grantaire, whose headache was starting to make it hard to think. “I know you don’t care about the political side of ABC but I thought I could trust you to help—“

“Why did you ask me, then?” This conversation was getting nowhere, and Grantaire really just wanted to lie down back in his hot bed and yell at his tablet some more. 

“I don’t know,” said Enjolras coldly. “I thought you would think about a cause other than yourself for once.”

“Okay, fuck you, first of all,” said Grantaire, leaning on the doorframe. “You think I go to those meetings because I want to? I go because it makes my friends happy. I don’t help out at your demonstrations because I think you’ll make a difference. I don’t volunteer with you because I think you’re changing anyone’s lives. I do it because it clearly does something for you; it helps you believe in this illusion you’ve created that you’ll be the one to save humanity from itself. I don’t give a shit about your cause, and don’t say I’m selfish or whatever for not making your crusade a priority over my fucking job.” His voice raised louder and louder in order to be heard over the gusts of air starting to rage outside.

Enjolras was quiet, and had an unreadable expression. He did not look at Grantaire, and turned around to leave. “I won’t bother you anymore, then.”

Grantaire groaned internally, running a hand through his tangled, sweaty hair, knocking his glasses off to the floor in the process. He mumbled a curse before bending over to pick them up. He stood up quickly to put them back on, black clouding his vision, and promptly passed the fuck out. 

 

 

“Grantaire?” 

He opened his eyes. Enjolras was there, and the ends of his blond hair tickled Grantaire’s nose. “Hey.”

“Hey?!” said Enjolras incredulously, and a little frantic. “You just fainted on your front porch and all you say is “hey”? How sick are you?” His eyes were shining navy above Grantaire’s. 

“I feel fine,” said Grantaire truthfully. His migraine was gone, which was nice.

“Fine,” said Enjolras, standing up. Grantaire noticed that he was looking up at the sky, small pinpricks of star twinkling far, far away. He thusly deduced that he must have fallen forward off his porch, which was infinitely better than falling backwards and splitting his skull open on the hardwood. He made an effort to sit up, but Enjolras glared at him. “No. You stay there, and I am going to get something for your nose.” He walked inside, running his hands through his hyacinth hair.

My nose, thought Grantaire, reaching up to touch it. Sure enough, when he retracted his fingers from the bridge of his nose between his eyes, they came back a little bloody. Probably from his glasses digging into his skin when he fell. Probably going to scar. It wasn’t broken, because he knew how it felt to be broken and this wasn’t it. I am remarkably calm about this, he thought, remarkably calmly.

Enjolras came back, brandishing a wet paper towel. “Put this on your nose,” he directed, “and I’ll help you get inside.” Grantaire did as he said, and Enjolras took his other arm in his alabaster hands and tugged him up. Grantaire felt a bit dizzy again, but it faded quickly and he said nothing. They made their way to Grantaire’s bed in his room, where Enjolras forced him to lie down. “Do you have a thermometer?”

Grantaire chuckled. “It’s cute that you think I would own a thermometer.”

Enjolras’ expression was indecipherable as he reached out to feel Grantaire’s forehead. His hand was nice and cool against his skin, and Grantaire leaned a bit into it. He felt a small puff of air on his cheek. “Shit, Grantaire,” he said, looking very troubled indeed. “You’re burning up. Have you taken any medicine for a fever today?”

He merely shrugged. “Thought it was just a bad day. Migraine, general depression, you know. Didn’t think it was anything more than that, so I just stayed in bed all day to work on commissions and shit.”

“All day?” asked Enjolras, trying to dig something out of his faux leather bag. “Did you eat anything, at least?” Grantaire was quiet. “Drink anything?” Grantaire looked at his nails. Enjolras looked pained. 

“I’m calling Joly,” he said, having finally found his phone at the depths of his bag.

“You are not,” said Grantaire pointedly. “I feel completely fine.”

“I don’t care,” Enjolras retorted. “You have a high fever, you complained about a migraine, and then you passed out after yelling about posters for two minutes. Joly is a medical professional and can help whatever is wrong.”

“The posters,” mumbled Grantaire. “I’m sorry about those, by the way.”

“Don’t be,” said Enjolras, looking very guilty, which was quite unbecoming, even on his flawless features. “I shouldn’t have said anything, and I wouldn’t have if I knew you were so sick.” He dragged a hand over his face, setting his phone on his lap. “Sorry, I’m just really stressed out about this protest in particular. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” questioned Grantaire. “You don’t usually get quite so uptight about these things. It’ll go smoothly, you will inspire hundreds to join your cause, and all will be well.”

Enjolras smiled a bit at that, looking a little tired. “We can never be sure. We always have to prepare for the worst; we don’t want the police to have to get involved again.”

“No,” insisted Grantaire. “You’re amazing at these types of things. You’re like a god when you speak, with the wind in your hair and guns a-blazing. You could convince anyone.”

“Except you,” said Enjolras.

“Except me,” agreed Grantaire. They were quiet for a few moments. “Well, whatever is bothering you, just know you can talk to me about it, if you want. I feel like you know everything about me, but I know next to nothing about you,” Grantaire thought aloud.

Enjolras smiled a strange, melancholy smile. “Thanks, Grantaire. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He called Joly, who came over and yelled at Grantaire about his health. Enjolras tried to hide his smug face, but Joly also had no problem reminding him of the many times he had endangered his health by being negligent to his mortal needs before he started to room with Combeferre, who could force Enjolras to eat and sleep now. Joly determined that Grantaire probably just had a mild strain of the flu, and wrote him a prescription for it, which Enjolras quickly stole and made off to the nearest pharmacy with before Grantaire could object with something idiotic about the price. 

The rest of the night went well enough. Joly left once Enjolras returned from the pharmacy, and made Grantaire swear to take his medicine and not do anything stupid. Enjolras demanded Grantaire to let him stay the night to make sure he didn’t pass out again. Grantaire had offered for Enjolras to sleep in his bed with him—it was a big bed, despite just being a mattress on the floor, and he knew firsthand how uncomfortable his couch was to sleep on—but Enjolras vehemently denied this, turning his face away. He slept the night without a hitch, and when Grantaire woke up the next morning, Enjolras took his temperature--39 degrees; better than yesterday but not ideal--and watched him swallow his medicine before leaving in a whirlwind to do whatever Enjolrases did on Sunday mornings. 

Courfeyrac let himself in a half-hour after Enjolras had left. He had his own key, but Grantaire had no idea where he had gotten it, and it this point it was too late to ask and in bad taste to ask for it back (not that he really cared). 

“Greetings and salutations,” Courfeyrac said, kicking the door to Grantaire’s bedroom open. “I come in peace. Enj asked me to come babysit you, and I also just like to see you in your stupid glasses.”

“They help me see, idiot. Not my fault that I’m basically blind,” Grantaire said, frowning at his computer. Courfeyrac threw himself on the bed beside him, bouncing a little.

“Whatcha workin’ on?” asked Courfeyrac, peering over Grantaire’s shoulder. 

“Posters for ABC,” replied Grantaire, mildly distracted by his work.

Courfeyrac hummed. “Enj was pretty pissed about them, huh.”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” 

Courfeyrac just laughed. “You earthlings often forget I am the one in control, and all of you are just puppets to my will.” Grantaire looked at his friend, unimpressed. Courfeyrac huffed. “He stopped by his and Combeferre’s apartment about thirty minutes ago. I slept over last night. Irrelevant. Anyways, Combeferre picked up on it, and I forced him to tell me after Enjolras left. He never can resist my boyish charm.”

“Does Combeferre do that to everyone?” asked Grantaire. “Pick up on things people are thinking about, I mean.”

Courfeyrac frowned pensively. “I’m not sure. I could ask. I think it might be involuntary, like Enjolras’ wind, but I think if he concentrates he can control exactly who to listen to.”

“Huh,” said Grantaire, pausing to take a sip of the large water bottle Enjolras had manhandled into his arms before his departure. “Wait. Enjolras can’t control it at all?”

“Not that I know of,” Courfeyrac mused. “It’s all emotional response, as far as I can tell.” 

It was not necessarily unusual for someone to not have a lot of control over these types of things, but to be completely unable to control it was rather rare. It was kind of a spectrum—Courfeyrac on one end, having complete reign over his body temperature; Combeferre in the middle, having some control over what he does and doesn’t hear; and Enjolras on the other side, having no say at all in how he affects the wind. 

Grantaire remembered all the times he thought Enjolras was just being dramatic, like knocking over the fan that one time, and calling upon every one of the four winds during their fight. Suddenly, Grantaire felt like he was missing out on something very big, but he did not know what, and would not give Courfeyrac the satisfaction of knowing his thoughts. So he simply grunted, and returned to his work. He emailed the digital copies to Enjolras once he finished. He didn’t get a reply soon, but it was a Sunday, and he would check later. Courfeyrac coaxed him into eating a few saltines and an orange, and while it felt good to get something in his stomach, it felt a lot worse to empty it all into the toilet a few minutes later the same way it had gone down. Gross. Mild strain of the flu, my ass, thought Grantaire. Being sick sucked, puking up everything you ate sucked, and winter sucked, most of all. However, he couldn’t help but feel content, cuddling with Courfeyrac’s comfortably warm body on his messy bed, most of his work finished, laptop and tablet set aside, Lenina curled between them.

 

 

It was a few weeks later, and they were together at Grantaire’s cramped (“Cozy!” Courfeyrac would insist) apartment; Cosette was there. She had easily wormed her way into their group after she and Marius got together, and Éponine had made herself scarce lately for obvious reasons, but had appeared for this get-together, though its purpose or cause Grantaire couldn’t recall. It was morning-time, and everyone seemed content after spending the night there. Cosette and Marius sat, enraptured, on the clean carpet beneath a large window. Cosette was flicking the bits of light on her thigh back into the air, and they drifted like fireflies around Marius’ head. He grabbed some out of the air and blew into his palm, a fine mist forming a shimmering rainbow around the bits of light there. They giggled, lovesick. Éponine had stolen glances at their revery between rounds of Mario-Kart (by Courfeyrac’s loud and frequent complaints, it seemed she was winning) before eventually joining them, fashioning a lark out of a clump of Marius’ shadow. Cosette and Marius stared delighted as it flew through the rainbow and out the window in a puff of dust. 

“R, come play Mario-Kart with us!” Courfeyrac shouted over the back of the couch. Grantaire had been having a conversation with Joly in the kitchen about the Girl Scouts (due to the box of Thin Mints Grantaire was hastily devouring), Musichetta occasionally chiming in as she fixed breakfast, eggs and onions and chopped herbs floating absentmindedly behind her. 

“No,” Grantaire called back. “I’m eating cookies.”

Courfeyrac turned completely around to face him. He glared at him, then the Thin Mint, which began to heat up in Grantaire’s fingers before melting down his hand and onto the wooden dining-table he and Joly were sitting around. “Please clean that up,” said Joly a little faintly, quickly handing him a paper towel. Grantaire did, and then excused himself to go play Mario-Kart. 

“Fuck you, I was excited for that cookie,” Grantaire grouched, thumping Courfeyrac on the back of his head before taking the controller Éponine had abandoned. Bossuet and Enjolras were also playing, apparently, but the three of them had rearranged on the couch, with Combeferre at Bossuet’s feet and Jehan at Courfeyrac’s to watch, so Grantaire took his dutiful spot underneath Enjolras. “But I will destroy you at Rainbow Road, and you will feel ashamed and guilty.”

“It’s not hard,” Enjolras mused. “He loses even to Bossuet, who had his controller upside-down for two races in a row.” Courfeyrac simmered and grit his teeth. 

After a few races (which Grantaire will gladly say he won), Enjolras began to tap his foot absentmindedly against the foot of the couch to the beat of the music. Grantaire wouldn’t have minded, obviously, but with each rhythm, a little gust would swirl and swirl around Enjolras’ exposed ankle until tiny tornadoes were constantly butting up against Grantaire. His right shoulder eventually got quite chilly because of the small winds, and he reached to place a hand against Enjolras’ leg to stop its fidgeting. “Oh,” Enjolras said. “I’m sorry, I forgot you were there—crap,” he frowned as his kart hit a banana and fell off the road. 

“It’s fine,” Grantaire said, nonchalant, crossing the finish line at first place again. “Nothing new.”

Enjolras made fourth, and his frown deepened. A crease formed between his perfect brows, and the ends of his hair shifted. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, setting down his controller on his lap. 

“It’s fine,” Grantaire repeated. “I’m quite forgettable, I know.” He was not being entirely serious, but Enjolras didn’t seem to tell, judging by his far-off, thoughtful expression. Bossuet whooped as he got eighth and Courfeyrac ninth, and the TV was turned off. Musichetta called that breakfast was ready, and everyone migrated to the kitchen for bacon and omelettes and hashbrowns. 

They all sat around the table, in chairs and cushions brought from the living room and stools moved from the breakfast-bar. Grantaire drenched his whole plate in syrup, for which most everyone at the table booed at him. He happily ate it anyways because syrupy bacon is the best bacon, and despite how his friends would badger him for it, he would love syrup and his friends regardless. 

The conversation flowed like water from person to story to future plan and back and eventually landed on: “Wait, you can play the violin?”

Enjolras looked a mix between confusion, awe, and intrigue at the question, and Grantaire nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t picked it up in a few days but I’ve played for a long time.”

Bahorel perked up. “You haven’t heard this guy play? R, you should play that Spanish one for him!”

Grantaire shot him a look, vaguely unimpressed. “I have literally no idea what you are talking about.”

Bossuet nodded. “You know, the real fast one about tarantulas. The one that goes…” He hummed a little bar.

Grantaire lit up in understanding. “Oh! Introduction and Tarantella, it’s called.” He looked at Enjolras nervously, who was looking more confused at the idea of tarantula music than when he had asked the original question. “I haven’t practiced in a while and it’s a pretty difficult piece…”

“Play it play it,” chanted Bahorel, and then Feuilly and Jehan and Bossuet and Musichetta joined in. “Play it play it play it play it play it—“

“Okay,” relented Grantaire with a smile, taking his plate and putting it in the sink, knowing full well he would let all of the dishes pile up in there later once everyone left. He liked to pretend he was not a pig by cleaning up whenever someone came over but once they were gone, he knew he wouldn’t mind the mess. “Let me go grab Carla.”

“Carla?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow.

“It’s her name,” said Grantaire, slipping into his bedroom and taking out her out of her case. He quickly wiped her down, put on his shoulder-rest and tightened his bow before going back to the kitchen. Her maple wood shone orange in the fluorescent lighting.

“How can you afford that?” Enjolras asked, before realizing how one might take offense at the question (Grantaire didn’t). “Sorry, you just complain about being poor a lot and I—“

“It’s fine, really,” Grantaire assured him, “you need to stop apologizing for stupid things. She was a gift for my sixteenth birthday from my mom. Best gift I ever got, seeing as I still have her ten years later and I’ll probably have her forever.” He quickly plucked for tuning, and was pleased to realize she hadn’t settled into the weather at all despite Grantaire not even thinking about playing her for at least a week. 

“This might not be that good,” confessed Grantaire. “It’s been a while.”

“No, you’ll be great,” insisted Courfeyrac, and Combeferre and Enjolras nodded together. 

Grantaire took a deep breath and played. 

 

Introduction opened melancholy. It began high and clear, then descended down and further. Arpeggios fell from Grantaire’s fingers, vibrato thick around the slow melody. The string was soft on his fingertips as they dug notes out of her center. His fingers climbed higher and higher up the E, until he hit the highest note of the section with grace, thankfully, and his pinky trembled as he held it just barely above the string as to draw out the almost too-high harmonics with but a hint of vibrato, sul ponticello back down to the G string. Without an accompaniment, there was nobody to count down until the slow sixteenth notes, all in one bow as they quickly grew faster until his bow was ricocheting off the string and chord, chord, chord, chord, chord, chord, chord, chord—

Tarantella made him feel like he was flying, and he would have noticed that he actually was floating an inch or so off the ground, had he not been so focused on making his fingers speed up and down the ebony fingerboard. His left wrist curled permanently around her shoulder, high notes cramping his wrist as he played them. He played chord after chord until there emerged that cheerful brilliant melody, and vibrato sharply stung his fingers as he flew his bow across the E. His right wrist and elbow see-sawed up and down, again and again as he played those familiar ascending and descending bars. His fingers danced reaching the highest notes his friends would likely ever hear. Pizzicato cut his index nail and strained his pinky finger as he plucked, but resumed quickly with another double-stop—always more double-stops. Harmonics paired with those an octave lower, going up by half steps until the melody returned. He slid from position to position and back, burning his fingertips as they dragged up the string on the way up and down. It felt like a million measures of only ricocheted double stops, bow hairs popping and ripping off as he pounded at the chords. His playing was delicate at times and heavy at the others; low G punctuated phrases that forced him higher and higher, his fingers practically lying on top of each other as Carla narrowly avoided squealing out the notes. More flying eighths before the last four octave scale, the fastest one Grantaire had ever played in his life, then probably the highest note of the piece, then the harmonics, then that last rolling chord—

—when all the windows and doors blew violently open all at the same time. 

Snapped out of his musical trance, Grantaire stumbled backwards as his feet touched the ground again. Glass cups of orange juice and milk that had started to float during his performance had dropped just when Grantaire had dropped his bow from the string, and a few fell off the table and shattered on the tile floor. The syrup bottle was knocked over, along with the water pitcher, dribbling ice into Joly’s lap. Everyone’s plates seemed intact except for Enjolras’, whose dish was blown half across the table, though it’s anyone’s guess where his cutlery went. His hands were in fists, trembling a little. Grantaire brought Carla down from his shoulder and he looked at Enjolras’ face. Enjolras looked abjectly mortified, and stood up. 

“I have to go,” he announced, hands unfurling (the twin breezes rattled the table) as he grasped at the air, before grabbing his bag and slipping on his shoes next to the open door and flying out. 

“Um,” said Grantaire after a moment of staring at the open door.

“Go,” said Courfeyrac. 

Grantaire set Carla nervously on the breakfast bar—“Nobody touch that”—and pulled on his battered pair of sneakers before shutting the door behind him, leaving his friends to take care of the mess. 

 

 

“Enjolras, Enjolras,” Grantaire called, running to catch up with him on the cramped Parisian alleyway. He saw him about to turn a corner from a few yards away and picked up his pace outside his apartment building accordingly. “Enjolras, wait!”

“What?” demanded Enjolras, looking incredulous as he turned to Grantaire, who had fallen into step next to him. 

“Why’d you go?” asked Grantaire, trying for relaxed, but probably failing. He wished he had a jacket, as the cold gnawed at his bare arms to the bone and stung his nose as he breathed. 

“Why’d I—“ Enjolras took an angry breath and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Grantaire, I completely ruined your kitchen. You were floating, for god’s sake!”

“So what?” Grantaire said, nonchalant. Enjolras seethed. “You can’t control it, right? So it isn’t your fault.”

“That’s the point!” Enjolras shouted. They had moved onto a more deserted street—there was nobody of notice to spare a glance at Enjolras’ tense voice. Grantaire’s feet began to hurt from the uneven cobblestone. “Everyone else can control themselves, why can’t I?” Grantaire had never seen Enjolras so angry at himself. He had always been his own harshest critic (Grantaire not generally far behind), but the air around him was dense, practically vibrating. “I’ll never be taken seriously if I can’t figure out how to keep it in check. I could have hurt you, Grantaire, or anyone in the room just because I can’t reign in my own emotions!”

“Apollo,” Grantaire tried. “Your abilities—you—are amazing—“

“No!” Enjolras cried. “Don’t call me that! I know you idolize me, you put me on a pedestal and I hate it.” He looked almost in pain now; his face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were strange gleams in his steely blue eyes. “I’m not perfect—“

“Nobody asked you to be,” said Grantaire. “You’re allowed to mess up.”

Enjolras just sighed. “I won’t. I never want to hurt you. Anyone. It won’t happen again.” He was trying to convince himself as much as he was Grantaire. 

They walked aimlessly in silence for a while. The sun was high and bright as noon approached swiftly, but the air stubbornly refused to warm. Enjolras was clearly still peeved about something, fidgeting relentlessly as they passed shop after shop on the chilly boulevard.

“Spill,” said Grantaire. 

“Hm?” said Enjolras.

“You’re being weird,” said Grantaire. Enjolras only looked mildly offended. “So spill. Get it all off your chest.” Enjolras just looked at him. “No, seriously. You legit know everything about me and my tragic past. Tell me something about you for once.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Enjolras, looking uncomfortable.

“Clearly it does, since you are being weird about it.” 

“I’m not being weird.”

“No,” said Grantaire. “Clearly something is still bothering you, and it has been for a while. C’mon, Apollo, we’re friends, right? You can tell me anything.”

Enjolras’ hair whipped in a halo around his head and he was silent. Oh, goddammitall. This was the part where Enjolras told Grantaire that they weren’t actually friends at all, and this was all some pity party joke. Jesus, Grantaire didn’t think that he was really on Enjolras’ level, did he? Enjolras was a god on this earth, and it was only a matter of time before he finally realized Grantaire was more trouble than what he was worth. He closed his eyes, and waited for Enjolras to say—

“Grantaire, I’m in love with you,” Enjolras blurted and did not meet his eyes. 

Grantaire blinked. Is this real? he thought. Because that was unexpected. “No, you’re not,” he said back, stunned. 

“I’m pretty confident,” Enjolras replied in a high voice. His face was flushed from the cold and from—um—being in love with Grantaire, apparently. His eyes were wide with leftover anger and worry, and his shoulders were a little slumped. It was the most human Grantaire had ever seen him. 

“This is the universe where I’m an idiot at the back of your SJW meetings where you decide how to help the world and I tell you why you’re wrong in every fathomable way, right?” Grantaire said, because he quite frankly wasn’t sure. 

“Yeah,” said Enjolras. “That’s part of the reason why. You’re very intelligent.”

Grantaire felt light-headed. “I am nothing compared to you.”

Enjolras huffed. “We just established that I just smashed about half the cups in your kitchen because of how enamored I was by your violin-playing. It’s a pretty even playing field.”

“It’s a good show piece,” Grantaire said faintly.

“You’re not usually this dense, are you?” Enjolras demanded. “It’s not the piece or even your ability to play it—it’s you, and your hands, and your face.”

“Says you,” muttered Grantaire.

“So what says me?”

Grantaire suddenly grew very angry, and felt hot. “Don’t you ever look at yourself in the mirror? You’re the most objectively attractive person this side of the Seine and you petition the world to be the better place that you deserve, because you deserve only the good, Enjolras. I’m a depressed starving artist who comes up with a new reason to hate the world every time I look away from you. I’m barely the scum on the bottom of your shoes. That metaphor doesn’t even work, because you literally float everywhere like some kind of angel, Apollo, I don’t deserve you, not in this lifetime or the next.”

Enjolras just looked at him coldly. “You know I don’t care about how I look, so what does it matter to you? You’re incredible; I’ll never care how you look or how I do, either.”

“You’re otherworldly,” Grantaire retorted. 

“No,” said Enjolras. “Why is it always like this with you? I’m just a man, Grantaire, why won’t you let me be so?” He paused. Grantaire held his breath. “If there’s anyone I want to be human with, it’s you. Don’t speak of deserving or not, because it’s irrelevant.”

“It isn’t, though,” snapped Grantaire. “I contradict your every point because I’m the poor pessimistic bastard who can’t even—“

“Stop!” cried Enjolras. “Stop pretending I’m somehow better than you—what for, anyways? I just admitted that I’m in love with you, so why are you so completely adamant in believing this fantasy that you’re below me? Is it truly because I’m conventionally attractive? We both know you can’t be that shallow. You clearly don’t believe in anything I say, so it’s not that either. What is it that makes you believe this shitty, self-pitying narrative that somehow you aren’t good enough for me? You forget that I’m the one who told you. I wish I hadn’t said anything at all.”

“Me, too,” said Grantaire. He did not know if he meant it, only that he had said it, and that nothing else really mattered at all.

The wind howled. Enjolras’ chest heaved, and his eyes were bitter and hard. He had a certain angry beauty about him; a beauty not of his pale color nor long eyelash nor shapely brow, but of meaning, movement, and radiance. He looked Grantaire in the eyes once before starting to walk fast away, the soles of his shoes skating lowly, barely an inch off the crooked pavement. 

“Enjolras,” he called, running to catch up with him on the empty Parisian street. “Enjolras, wait!”

 

“What,” said Enjolras. “I think you’ve made your feelings clear enough.” He pressed a sleeve up to his nose to cover up a sniff. Grantaire felt gigantically, humongously awful.

“No, I—” Grantaire struggled to find words, and took a large breath. “You could draw me to fire, you could draw me to water,” he quoted, “you could draw me to the gallows, you could draw me to any death, you could draw me to anything I have most avoided, you could draw me to any exposure and disgrace,” he paused, “and I would follow. But you could draw me to any good—every good—with equal force.” 

For, you see, Grantaire did not love Enjolras the way Enjolras loved him. He admired him, worshipped him, thought him radiant, powerful and holy; but he was not in love with Enjolras. Enjolras was untouchable, and for that reason, Grantaire refused to touch. However, Grantaire spoke truth. If Enjolras wanted to draw Grantaire to something resembling love, then Grantaire would dutifully be drawn. 

“Grantaire,” sighed Enjolras. His face was soft and open. The violent winds around him died down, if only just a little. Grantaire stepped forward into Enjolras’ personal space. He did not step back. He placed a hand on the back of Enjolras’ neck, his fingers tangling a little into the thin white-blond hairs there. Enjolras’ breath hitched. Grantaire pulled him down to kiss him, and the air was silent and still.

**Author's Note:**

> The piece Grantaire plays is Pablo de Sarasate’s Introduction and Tarantella. You can watch a performance of it here: https://youtu.be/g0UQZfu3aRY (I dont like his LH pizz but other than that its probably my fav interpretation)
> 
> If you liked this even a little bit, please consider following me on instagram @zoraed (I post my art there, occasionally Enjoltaire). 
> 
> Also, kudos and comments run through my veins. They make me feel alive.


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